


Time Is a Healer (But It Pulls Us Apart)

by JennaCupcakes



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, everybody dies at least once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: Thoros has dreams. They're all about Beric dying. He's not going to let that happen.





	Time Is a Healer (But It Pulls Us Apart)

**Author's Note:**

> The title (and parts of this fic) were inspired by the song 'Ge Zwiegt' by Het Zesde Metaal, and by my trouble translating the word 'schweigen' from German to English. 
> 
> A little note about the setting: It's set in the 'verse that the show has created, but bits of the books are showing in the cracks, as bad dreams or the like. So there's spoilers (of sorts) for both.

Thoros is sure that he will die first, and Beric thinks it will be him, and that is their shared understanding: That neither of them can bear to see the other die. Of course, they both get their will, in a way. They are stubborn men.

Thoros dreams one night.

He dreams he watches Beric die, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

They’re somewhere by a river, he doesn’t know the place. Around them are a few trees, and the banks of the river are shallow here. Reed sways in a soft breeze that for once doesn’t make Thoros think of the impending winter. It is almost a pleasant scene.

The smell is unbearable.

There, on the banks of the river, lies the bloated corpse of Catelyn Stark, her throat cut. Thoros isn’t sure how he recognises her, but there is certainty in the air, and this is a dream, after all. In the dream, he knows. Beric recognises the body, too.

Thoros dreams Beric, despite the smell, kneels down next to the corpse. Inspects the body, which has likely been in the water for days, then rises with an unreadable expression. Thoros’ heart sinks.

“This was Ned Stark’s wife,” he says, and Thoros curses the duty Beric feels he has to the dead. The Starks are all but gone.

The other men that are with them keep their distance. They are faceless, because in the dream, they do not matter. In the dream, Beric goes to stand next to Thoros, and ask in a quiet whisper. “Can you bring her back?”

Thoros eyes the body on the shore. It seems barely human anymore. He doesn’t want to get any closer, which is strange, because he’s never had a problem with the dead before. But something about this scene doesn’t seem right.

“She’s dead, Beric,” Thoros responds, “There’s nothing left. Look at her.”

He doesn’t want to look at Beric, but Beric searches his gaze and holds it. “You could say that about me, too. How many times have you brought me back?”

“I was always with you,” Thoros says, and doesn’t add that he dreads the day he is not. He doesn’t know how long a grace period he has. Some days he can’t even let Beric out of sight. Some nights he dreams that Beric leaves, despite that, and Thoros loses him. This is not that kind of dream.

“This is Ned Stark’s _wife_ ,” Beric repeats, as if that still means something, “I can’t just leave her here.”

This is when Thoros understands what Beric means to do.

“We can bury her a little way from here,” Thoros suggests, hoping to stay Beric’s madness with reason, by not acknowledging that he already knows.

“I do not have your gift, Thoros,” Beric says, undeterred, “But I would feel terrible for not trying.”

“This is madness,” Thoros says, “It won’t work. She’s dead.”

“You’re afraid I will die,” Beric responds calmly.

“She’s gone. She’s dead,” Thoros repeats.

“So was I,” Beric says, “Please. You brought me back. Let me return the favour.”

And despite Thoros’ pleas, he kneels down besides the cold, wet body of Catelyn Stark. In the dream, this simple action lasts a lifetime. Thoros observes Beric, and wonders if there’s anything he can do to stop him. He can’t think of the words, even though they’re right at the tip of his tongue.

“You promised me once, Thoros,” Beric says without looking back at Thoros, and they’re the cruellest words Thoros has ever heard. “I’m going to have to hold you to it. You promised me you wouldn’t leave me.”

“Please don’t do this, Beric,” Thoros says, but they’re not the right words, not what he was supposed to say. He still can’t remember them, as is the way of nightmares, and so he has to watch as Beric casts one last smile over his shoulder, and then leans down and kisses the corpse’s river-wet lips.

Thoros feels the life leaving Beric. It’s when a part of his own soul is wrenched from him.

He wants to rush forward, to catch Beric in his arms, to say the words and kiss Beric, but in the dream, he can’t move. In the dream, the image stays frozen on Beric’s lifeless form, and Thoros screams.

 

* * *

 

They’re in the cave under the Hollow Hill, but everything has been packed up, ready to move out by first light tomorrow. Bags are piled against the wall of the cave, crates with supplies that won’t last them the winter, bales of hay for the horses, because they can’t rely on the kindness of strangers after the first snowfalls.

They’re headed North. Thoros has seen it in the flames.

He has seen other things in the fire, too, things that make him afraid. Things that he hasn’t told Beric about. They’re lying in front of the fire, pressed closer together for warmth now that winter is coming. It’s humid in the cave, and there’s a perpetual chill that comes with that.

“You’re quiet,” Beric remarks.

It’s only them and the fire, and Thoros tries not to look at the fire too closely, so only Beric remains. All their space seems shared now, Thoros can’t even tell anymore if their supposed to sit together this close, but it’s not like anyone would care. Anyone else in their brotherhood has stopped thinking of them as two separate people a long time ago.

“It’s an active thing, you know,” Thoros responds.

Beric sits close to the fire, but there seems to be a cold in his bones now that won’t leave. Thoros can feel it where their shoulders touch. Beric needs two fires to keep him warm on this night.

“What is?” Beric asks, turning his head to look at Thoros with a frown. Thoros feels like he’s being pulled from deep thought. He reaches for his bottle.

“Being silent. In my mother tongue, it’s an active thing, not a lack of something.”

“Huh.” Beric nods thoughtfully. “What is your mother tongue again?”

“A form of Valyrian,” Thoros responds.

He takes a swig from the bottle, settles deeper against Beric. He will enjoy this closeness, the warmth while he can. Up north on their journey, there will be fewer private moments, and Beric will have a duty to fulfil. Whatever this duty that the Lord of Light imagined is. Thoros doesn’t know, though he has an idea. Some might call it premonition.

The fire cracks. A comforting background noise to the silence of the cave. Their companions, brothers, have retreated into deeper tunnels and smaller chambers, where they can sleep in some semblance of peace.

“I don’t see how it’s an active thing,” Beric says. “Not saying something. Talking is action. Everything else is just… silence. The absence of words.”

Thoros huffs.

“Not saying anything is a choice sometimes,” he says and looks over at Beric, thinking the other man must have never longed to say something so much that it nearly burned his throat out.

Thoros first met Beric when they were both different men – Thoros much less of a believer, and Beric who still believed in too much, in his own invincibility most of all. Back then, they couldn’t have been friends like they are now, Thoros muses. Beric would have resented him, worse comes to worst, for being a bitter fool. It was good that the battlefield forged them together, even though Thoros resents everything the war has done to Beric. Everything it made _him_ do to Beric.

“You have a lot of secrets then, priest?” Beric teases, a little less light-hearted than he used to. “Some things you keep from us?”

Thoros reads in his eyes that he wants to say _some things you keep from me_. He knows the kind of inquisitive mood Beric is in, and he is not sure whether he should encourage it. He’s had too much wine for this, and so has Beric, even though Thoros is half sure he only drinks out of habit. There are a lot of things Beric only seems to do out of habit now, and the list grows longer every time Thoros presses his lips to Beric’s.

“I wasn’t talking about secrets, you know,” Thoros says, “I was talking about silence as something you can just enjoy, and not something you have to overcome. Enjoying silence together is just as important as a good conversation.”

He gives Beric a pointed look, and Beric laughs and playfully shoves Thoros.

“You are a menace, priest.”

Thoros swallows his words every time Beric calls him _priest_. He doesn’t want to be reminded of what he’s done for Beric, what he’s done _to_ Beric, not tonight. Not when he’s just seen Beric laugh for the first time in _days_.

They settle against each other again, and Beric’s glance glides over to the fire. Its glow is fading now, the bright yellows and whites being replaced by orange and amber tones. It makes the walls of the cave glow in honey gold, and the shadows warm shades of brown. Thoros wants to reach for the bottle again, when suddenly, Beric’s hand finds his.

“I know you’re not telling me everything that crosses that mind of yours, Thoros,” Beric says, giving him a small smile, “But I do so wish you would talk to me about what worries you.”

Thoros takes a breath to respond, his heart is tight, but Beric cuts him off. “I see things in the flames, too, though I’m no priest.”

Thoros exhales quietly. “I worry about losing you.”

Beric’s quiet, earnest smile freezes. “I know,” he says and looks away.

Again, the words burn Thoros’ throat. Because Beric doesn’t know, how could he. Thoros will keep bringing Beric back until his own last breath, because he couldn’t bear to lose him. That is the deal. That is why he has made his peace with the Lord of Light. He will never have to see the love of his life die.

“The night is dark, and full of terrors,” Thoros says, “I usually don’t let them keep me up. That’s what I have this for.”

And he reaches for the bottle, but Beric stills his hand again.

“I worry about losing you, too.”

And there it is, the kind of inquisitive, dangerous mood that Beric seems to be in. Tonight, he is ready to tumble them over the edge. Thoros has never felt less prepared for anything.

His skin burns where he is pressed against Beric. The cold feeling of Beric’s body is still there, but Thoros’ own skin is aflame, keenly aware of the presence of the other man.

“You know me,” Thoros says, “I tend to stick around. It’s what I’m good at.”

“I do hope you’re telling the truth now, priest. It would be very selfish of you to keep bringing me back and then to steal off one day when I can’t return the favour.”

_I’m no one_ , Thoros wants to say, _I’m nothing, don’t worry about me_. But the truth he has seen he can’t unsee now, it is in Beric’s eyes by the light of the fire – that Beric cares about him. That Beric might even love him. He doesn’t have a plan for how to deal with that – it still feels fuzzy, like he’s being plunged underwater, aided by the dimming light of the fire and the lull of his wine. It doesn’t feel real.

So he stays quiet. So he says nothing.

Beric looks at him, inquisitive, searching for something on Thoros’ face. When he doesn’t find it, he rolls his eyes. Thoros only has a moment to wonder about that, because by the time it processes, Beric has reached for the front of his jerkin, hauled him over, half on top of Beric, and kisses him.

Thoros knows the feeling of Beric’s lips so well by now, but he’s never known them like this – warm, and wet, and seemingly ready to swallow Thoros whole. It’s too much for Thoros, who never expected to have any of this, and who feels like he might fall apart any second. He reaches for Beric, clutches at him, and finds the man reassuringly alive. He makes a quiet noise, more exhale than moan.

Beric pulls back. “Do you understand now?”

Thoros’ heart is beating too fast. His face is hot, flushed warm with blood, and there is a strange taste of ozone and death on his lips, though that last might just be memory from all the other times he has kissed Beric.

Beric brings a hand to the back of Thoros’ head and pulls it down so he can whisper in Thoros’ ear. “I want to kiss you when I’m alive, too, Thoros.”

And if that doesn’t break everything inside Thoros. He laughs shakily, and then he presses his lips to Beric’s. He knows that love isn’t normally supposed to be like this, desperate and a little bit too close to death, but normal people don’t kiss their lovers back from the dead, anyway. Beric’s hand knits itself tightly into the hair on the back of Thoros’ head, holding him close, and Thoros senses in that movement all the despair Beric feels at not being able to keep Thoros tied to life the way Thoros can do for him. And maybe it’s not fair, but in this, Thoros will be selfish, because he couldn’t bear to lose this. Now more than ever.

When they pull apart, they are both breathing heavily. “You won’t get rid of me now,” Thoros says, and he dares to smile because yes, Beric is breaking his heart every time he dies and every time Thoros catches a glimpse of the scars, but he’s wanted this for so long. He’s more drunk on Beric than on wine.

Beric’s hand in his hair tightens again. “Promise me, though, priest. I want you to promise you won’t leave me,” he mutters into Thoros’ neck, “Please, Thoros.”

“I won’t,” Thoros half chokes on the words. All those words, all those promises.

Beric surges up to kiss him again, then, and Thoros gets lost in the warmth. The fire crackles quietly, and Beric rolls them over so he can undo the front of Thoros’ jerkin to kiss the chest beneath, making Thoros’ breath hitch until all thoughts of death are gone from his mind, and it’s only Beric’s kisses and how they move together.

Afterwards, they lie by the embers of the fire, their muscles lose and relaxed, their breathing quiet. It’s almost completely dark now, but Thoros can still make out the faint outlines of Beric’s scars on his skin. He resists the urge to trace them with his fingers. Beric has one hand splayed out possessively over Thoros’ chest, right over his heart.

 

* * *

 

 They go up North like the flames promised, they find their wall and their way beyond it, and even though there are other people, it feels like it’s just the two of them now. And Thoros gets his heart’s desire: He dies before Beric.

When the bear attacks, he makes that decision: He will not go back, he will not abandon Beric in this strange snow country. And Beric, bless his heart, doesn’t challenge his decision. He just looks at him when they take their rest for the night, and then holds him close, keeps him warm because the fire in Thoros is failing now.

“You’re breaking your promise to me, priest,” he whispers, their faces hidden from the others under their hoods.

“I’m sorry,” Thoros says, though he’s not, “But I think with your current situation, you all might follow me soon.”

Beric shuts him up with a kiss that tastes of snow, too much for Thoros to bear. What will keep Beric warm, here, in the snow, among the dead?

“Promise me you’ll try to live,” Thoros says, “And I’ll promise you to hold on for as long as I can.”

The pain in his chest is dull and throbbing, but he can’t feel much else. He knows the signs. He knows where he is going. He has made his peace with his god.

“I don’t think I still know how to live, Thoros,” Beric mutters, “You’ve brought me back so many times. When you go, I think I will forget.”

“That is nonsense,” Thoros says decisively, “The Lord brought you back. The Lord will watch over you.”

_He has to_ , he adds in his mind, _it’s the bargain I made with him_.

He falls asleep in Beric’s arms, and wakes one last time. He fights, too, as well as he can. It’s not the Whites that get him. It’s the cold, as is fitting for a priest of fire.

There, on that rock, in the middle of a frozen lake, he can feel his consciousness drift away bit by bit. Every time he blinks, his eyelids get heavier, but he keeps his gaze fixed on Beric, muttering every prayer he knows.

_Lord, cast your light upon this man. Lord, cast your light upon this man, for the night is dark and full of terrors. Lord, cast your light upon this man. Lord, –_


End file.
